


Second Chance

by MrMundy



Category: Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Fennorian's mother, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Mother-Son Relationship, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25606408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrMundy/pseuds/MrMundy
Summary: Fennorian transitions more than once.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	Second Chance

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of a vent fic, in a sense. Dysphoria and all that all over in this, buddy! 
> 
> And a different backstory for Fennorian: this time he travels with his mother as an antiquarian, uncovering ancient history beside her. I think it fits nice.... nicer than what I've written for him previously.

It's not something that happens all at once. There's no declaration of his identity, no big reveal or celebration. It’s a slow process that starts small: a shirt bought in a small general store somewhere near the cold peaks of Orsinium. His mother catches his gaze as he looks it over - he wants something heavier for the cold trek through to their destination, but the cut on the tunic is very obviously a masculine fit. 

She says nothing to him, only passes him the coin purse and sets him on his way. The shirt fits comfortably over one he’s already wearing.

What starts as a need for warmth and comfort spirals into something he’d never expected, but something he couldn’t be happier to pursue.

The steps go slowly, afterward: a change in clothing, a blade to his hair when it begins growing too long. Smaller changes he doesn’t take into account until far later begin to show and his mother says nothing, only lets him carry himself a little higher, raises her brow when he unconsciously lowers the tone of his voice when speaking with strangers. 

Small things.

Tiny hints that he doesn’t notice.

A tighter undershirt, a different cut for his trousers the next time he purchases a pair. 

He doesn’t know why his chest itches incessantly sometimes, can’t place why he feels something strange when he gets undressed to wash himself off with a tub of heated water in the tiny inn room his mother sets him up with. Like there’s something missing, a gap where there should be something. Like the flesh on his chest is a barrier, something extra that he should be able to press his hand directly through and feel something flat; why does he feel that way?

It clicks  _ later _ .

Later, when he meets a man who wears the same undergarments he does. They’re stopped by a river in the warm season and the man pauses beside him and his mother to let his horse drink. He tilts his head at the man, who smiles and waves a hand at him, and he reads him as wholly masculine and then notices -

The way the leather hugs his chest, the way he carries himself, the tone in his voice, as though forcibly pitched lower.

But he’s unmistakably masculine, a man, and -

Is that what he wants?

He feels dizzy just thinking about it.

The concept that his feelings are known elsewhere - that it’s not just his head being strange, not just his body feeling like his and not his at the same time is shared by others - is a comfort that makes the slow realisation fall into place.

He ponders it for some time.

A month? Two? Perhaps longer?

In the back of his head, he thinks he’s always known.

His mother says nothing when she notices.

The waters are tested - metaphorically, he’s dipping his toes in first - when his mother introduces him to a fellow Antiquarian in Riften and hesitates before addressing him fully.

“This is my…” She begins, turning to him. 

The air grows quiet. He swallows, rubs the back of his neck. His cheeks flush, he’s sure he isn’t quite convincing with the way his voice shakes.

“Son,” he says.

The conversation moves forward with no hitches. His mother positively beams at him. The stranger seems unphased.

Something in his chest feels lighter.

Later, his mother brings out an old book full of tales of other adventurers, real and fictional, and they pore over pages until a name stands out.

Fennorian, he picks. Fennorian, the name of an Altmer adventurer who braved the deserts of Elsweyr and fought off a battalion of Pahmar-raht using his wit and agility. He doubts he’ll ever do anything quite so great, given his much simpler hobby of antiquity hunting and history research, but his mother rubs his shoulder with one hand and assures him the name is positively perfect.

The word ‘he’ falls into place just as easily.

‘He’, Fennorian hears, and it makes his ears tune in, his shoulders sit higher.

He strains to lower his voice, still, and wears the tightest undershirts he can find until his chest begins to ache; he pulls back on that and wears what’s comfortable, then, and his mother watches like a hawk as he monitors his breathing to be sure he won’t hurt himself when they delve into deep caverns and ancient crypts.

Somewhere along the way, he picks up on alchemy. A friendly Bosmer teaches him more when they’re snowed in in the northern part of Cyrodiil, leaving him curious of more ways to utilize the craft. They show him, surprisingly, a little mixture he drinks once a month to lower his voice - it does other things, as well, but the way his voice evens out and finally feels his is the most important, he thinks.

He passes the hurdle and soon enough he’s recognized by strangers as what he knows is right.

Someone bumps into him, says ‘excuse me, sir’, and he smiles without thinking.

The things that bother him become less straining, now, with the amount of delight he feels just being addressed properly.

But they don’t go away. Not fully.

Bathing is hard, still, but he does it. Gets through it every time they have hot water or a river to jump into, travelling as they do. He cuts his hair again, to his shoulders, tries braiding it and wearing it in new ways to draw attention away from the way his jaw curves.

Later, his face evens out. But still he wears his hair down, covering the thinness he feels is so painfully obvious.

Some nights he lays with his hand over his chest, wondering if digging his fingernails in will - 

He pulls his hand away.

A single mention to his mother about his discomfort with his chest, and she’s on the hunt for something more to help him. Healers are spoken to, alchemists, and even surgeons. Town to town, different answers are dropped into their laps and are mostly useless until they meet one who knows just what Fennorian is looking for.

Healers and the singular surgeon work together, in a small healer’s den in southern Hammerfell. It’s hot, he’s sweating, but they give him something that makes him delirious while they work and before he knows it he’s waking up with scars.

A healer sits with his hands hovering just over his chest, making sure he doesn’t irritate the incisions when he moves, trying to sit up. He’s gently nudged down once more, told not to move too quickly, and he reaches a hand up to feel his chest.

The feeling of nothing there is -

Incredibly relieving.

He lays down and sleeps, properly, and his mother breathes a sigh of relief.

Travels after he’s healed are slow. His mother makes sure he’s fully healed before she even allows him outside of the town, and by the time they’re on the road once more, he’s left with the slightest scars that are easily overlooked by the color of his skin. 

They move onward, to new excavations and new ruins. 

The things they find aren’t of much value to anyone but themselves and the scholars they turn them around to, who tell them stories of the pieces they find. Tales get woven of ancient battles won and lost, of borders moved and changed over the centuries as rulers take and lose land in their leaderships. Fennorian becomes more fascinated with stories that stretch back so far that none but the gods and immortal beings might be able to tell them with accuracy. 

Their travels take them east, through ancient Ayleid ruins in Cyrodiil and great graves in Valenwood. Elsweyr is a short trip through the jungles in the north until they’re back in Cyrodiil once more. He keeps an old talisman he unearths, knowing it’s not cursed but interested in the letters scratched into the back. 

He’s grateful for the years he gets to spend with his mother, because they’re drawn short as they explore an ancient, crumbling temple in the middle of Bangkorai where the deserts and the forests meet.

Ancient burials are revealed to be resting places for weary undead, and trapped in the dark, Fennorian barely escapes with his life.

His mother is left underground.

He gathers himself up and travels somewhere safe, a tiny inn on the side of the road where he can rest and mourn.

Except the mourning lasts only a day; the thirst kicks in and he finds his teeth ten times sharper than before. Blood is the only taste in his throat as he flees, horrified of what he’s become. 

Running north is his best option, into the forests until he finds a ruin covered by moss and fallen trees. Crawling into the entrance is difficult and leaves his clothes torn and muddy but he doesn’t care. If nearly burying himself underground is what will keep him from killing, so be it.

He settles in.

It’s terrible and wet and the cavern stretches far below, leading into an old ruin where he sees skeletons of soldiers long-since dead, their armor rusted and swords cracked.

But it’s safe.

He’s there for a month, easily - he knows not if the innkeeper was found. What he does know, however, is that a lonesome adventurer finds him in the ancient ruin and offers him help. 

The man’s words barely make it past his lips before Fennorian is upon him, drinking until he’s able to think properly and then the guilt sets in.

Alone, again, he contemplates his actions.

The cavern is quiet, save for the sound of rats skittering over stone and into plants and urns. A steady drip of water from above keeps time and Fennorian phases between focusing on that and keeping himself steady. 

Down the hallway, ancient and half-crumbled, he hears the telltale sound of boots on stone.

Fennorian curls into himself, willing back the thirst that claims his throat. One wanderer was enough, he thinks, and he waits for the moment to pass.

Except it doesn’t.

Footsteps draw nearer, nearer, until a torch lights the cavern and he looks up. His gaze is met with the face of an Altmer man standing above him, towering, holding his hand out.

“Do you need help?” He says, and Fennorian hesitantly takes his hand. For some reason, the thirst doesn’t tempt him with this stranger. 

“I - I don’t know if you can help me…” he starts, and the man shushes him.

“No need to explain, I can sense it: you’re afflicted with vampirism,” he says, and Fennorian can only nod. “I can help you. Have you heard of House Ravenwatch?”

Outside, it begins storming.

Fennorian shakes his head.

And so his story starts over.

This time with his name written in the first pages properly.

_ Fennorian of House Ravenwatch. _


End file.
